


Shout at the devil

by Catharrington



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bondage, Brainwashed, Flayed Billy Hargrove, Gags, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Steve Harrington Whump, Voyeurism, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:01:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28457979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catharrington/pseuds/Catharrington
Summary: The gravel road crunched under the tires of the Camaro with the same loud popping as Steve’s joints felt. Tied up with rope, his mouth sealed over with tape, his only defense in the night the pathetic whimpering he could get out.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 4
Kudos: 100





	Shout at the devil

**Author's Note:**

> This is some therapy for me, and some intense Steve and Billy whump. If you are uncomfortable im sorry. It is attempted non-con for any one wary. And the ending is actually funny and hopeful. I hope y’all like it. 
> 
> [ check out my tumblr for a moodboard I created ;) ](https://catharrington.tumblr.com/post/639050015125454848/shout-at-the-devil-5k-words-oneshot-e-the)
> 
> Thanks so much for reading 🖤

The gravel road crunched under the tires of the Camaro with the same loud popping as Steve’s joints felt. Tied up with rope, his mouth sealed over with tape, his only defense in the night the pathetic whimpering he could get out. 

When the car screeched to a stop, it didn’t sound like a car. It sounded like some monster crying in victory. 

Steve hates that noise, hates that he knows it. Wishes his arms were undone and he had his bat in his hands so he didn’t feel so damn defenseless. 

But he didn’t bring his bat to work. To Scoops Ahoy where he had the dull job of locking up after the mall closed. In his blue polyester shorts and short sleeve combo. Little red scarf around his neck. The bat wouldn’t have matched his outfit. 

And now, as he curls up in the trunk of Billy Hargrove’s car, his shorts ride up ever higher. Over the swell of his flexing thigh meat. 

He can faintly hear the car door being opened and closed, heavy boots coming around to the backside of the Camaro. Laying there, listening to it, gets his heart racing. 

When the trunk gets yanked open, Steve tries to fight for what it’s worth. He kicks out his sneakers. 

But they get caught, in one big hand. The same big hand that can palm a basketball right out from between his legs. The same hand that curled around his jacket that night a year ago at the Byers’ house. The same hand that held out a Marlboro red cigarette as a peace offering only a few months ago. 

Steve knows that hand. He stills his struggling to watch upwards with wide eyes. 

Billy Hargrove isn’t Billy Hargrove, he’s infected with the upside down in his veins. His eyes are black in the moonlight. Steve can now see how his hair is flat and unbrushed. How his shirt hangs halfway out those sinfully tight jeans. 

He’s been flayed, and Steve’s fallen right into his arms. 

He gives a little whimper as Billy leans forward and gets his arms around him. 

Steve’s been in Billy’s arms before and he knows their feeling, their warmth and soft muscle. California sunshine radiating off that tanned skin so hot it burns pretty, pale boys from Indiana like him. 

This doesn’t feel like that. This feels like two iron rods clamping around Steve’s legs and waist and lifting. Throwing him over his shoulder like a load, like a chore to be done. Rather than a person. 

Rather than a lover. 

Steve tries to kick and scratch, gets a handful of hair and then shirt and pulls and pulls, but it’s useless. 

He glances only slightly up at the sign of the warehouse above. Steelworks it reads. An old warehouse Steve’s himself completely forgotten about in its closing years and years ago. He’ll never be found here. He’ll turn into a skeleton here. For the rats to feed on. 

Billy feels like steel under his fingers as he clutches to his shirt and rides down the steps to the basement inside. 

The smell is the first thing Steve gets hit with, rotted decaying spirals of smells that belong to road-kill caught up in someone’s stinking tires, the second thing he’s hit with is the way his back lands against the cold cement floor. With a hard, wet smack. 

Billy watches him struggle around like a worm, his legs and arms bound to the same ropes. Mouth covered by a thick piece of tape so he can only look around. Look upwards to the flayed man and try to plead. Those big brown eyes Billy once whispered he was powerless against. Laying side by side in Steve’s bed. Their breath warm across the pillow. 

But Billy smiles down at him. 

He starts to gently lower himself to one knee and then the other, leaning himself over Steve in a mockery of an intimate moment. Opens his mouth, and his breath smells just as badly as the stagnant air inside the Mill’s underbelly. 

Then he gets interrupted by another voice, not one made by those chapped lips. But another, softer, pleading voice. 

“Not him,” just two words that feel like stones being thrown. 

Steve’s eyes widen as he looks around. He knows that voice. Knows it better than he knows the hands that hover over his shoulders. 

Billy above him takes a second to consider, a second of watching Steve squirm more, then he backs away. And his lips parted for words melt back into a smug smile. 

“Not him?” He mimics back.

Steve’s breath stops in his chest. His air is already short from the cold and the scoops uniform doing nothing to protect from that. But his air really stops when he hears. The same voice. 

“Yeah,” it drags out of the darkness again, “Not him. Anyone but— I’m just... please.”

Steve turns to try and listen to that voice, but the whole basement feels like an echo chamber. He can’t pinpoint it. 

Not until he hears a shuffling noise from one wall, not too far away, and from the darkness steps Billy Hargrove. 

His own arms lost in a mess of sticky fleshy matter, they cling to his wrists and up to the shoulders of his leather jacket in a mock brace. His legs are free but he’s weak walking on them. Shaky even, from where Steve can watch him walk closer laying on the ground upside down. 

His hair is a mess of sticks and goo, head shining red at one spot and filthy with dirt across all the others. 

Steve wants to cradle his head in his hands and wipe that shit away, wants to be able to free Billy’s hands from the bindings on his wrists. But his own wrists are bound together. He can’t even do that much. 

Billy steps up close to Steve, moving his gaze wearily up and down. Finally settling on Steve’s prone form. And Billy drops down to his knees beside Steve’s head. His knees must have hurt, but being taken against his will and held down here for days— his entire being must be in pain. 

Stretching his neck out as if that could get them closer, Steve reached out for Billy’s form. His lips chapped and dry, reaching out to try and claim them as if his kiss could help in some way. 

Behind him, the other Billy’s hands yanked him backwards. Roughly on his hips. Like a child arguing over his toy, he claimed him away from Billy. 

The real Billy. 

Steve whimpered as his short nails scratched along the cement floor. 

False Billy stepped over him, towering over him in torn blue jeans and a dirty shirt. Smile as black as his veins making Steve feel bare on the ground. 

“Not this one?” It’s mouth asks in a mockery of interest. Eyes scanning up and down Steve’s body. 

Up and down. He bends forward to wrap iron cold hands around Steve’s ankles. Up and down. Over the cotton of his calf socks. Steve shivers, wiggles in his attempt to kick the legs off. 

The real Billy leans forward, his eyes flicking from the flayed fingers to Steve’s goose-bumped skin, “please,” he begs. 

But only earns a cruel laugh. 

“You are not in the position to make any demands, or pleas,” the flayed Billy speaks, “especially for a captive as cute as this one?” 

His hands lift to run the length of Steve’s legs, going from cotton socks to his skin. The ice of his fingers make his skin even colder, if that was even possible in the sunless basement. Large, dirty hands, shove at the hem of his goofy Scoops Ahoy uniform. 

Steve’s chest is moving rapidly, breath coming in hurried draws from his nose. His mouth covered, tears and snot making the tape wet but not moving it. His cheeks hurt from trying to open his mouth and yell, his body panicking.

“That’s the correct word, yeah?” The flayer asks, asks as he takes, “I know I got the right word. Cute as a scared cat. Cowering along the wall—,” 

“Just— wait a minute!” Real Billy has leaned forward on his hands, using the bound clump of tentacles to crawl forward. 

Steve whips his head from the flayed Billy to look upside down again at the real Billy. At his Billy. As he begs on his hands and knees. “Not this one,” he growls out, “You know... it can’t be him…”

Flayed Billy lifts his head up, his hands stopped searching over Steve’s body. He’s stilled like an iron rod across his skin. Cold handcuffs cutting into his tender flesh. His eyes were just as cold as he examined Billy for answers. 

He blinked once. And his eyes dilated to nearly all black. His eyes went from the gorgeous sea blue of Billy’s own. 

They were different now, completely gone. 

Billy winced, swallowed his fear and readied himself as if he were expecting a hit. 

“I understand now,” he dragged the words as he dragged his hands from the sailor shorts up to Steve’s polyester shirt. “You want this body? But not in the same way. In your simple, human ways.”

His hands pushed the hem of Steve’s shirt up to his nipples, even with his wiggling. His bound hands trying to move his elbows down on top of the flayer’s touch, the thin bones of the back of his hands were stronger than any hit. 

The hands kept moving, kept lifting. Until his shirt was bunched up around his armpits. His chest out on display. Steve’s impressive patch of dark chest hair did nothing to combat the cold of the steel mill’s basement. 

Or the chill of being held down while another world’s monster has their way with you. 

Flayed Billy used one hand to hold the fabric right where he wanted, while the other crawled cruelly and cold under his shirt to come out around his neck. Large fingers easily wound themselves around his slender throat. Easily squeezed down. 

The flayed smiled as he did it. Smiled as he asks, “Maybe I should use such simple human matters to break this one?”

How much Steve was crying still wasn’t making the tape across his mouth budge. Eyes rapidly blinking them out. Creating tracks in the dirt and dust over his face, the water dropping carelessly from the glossy duct tape. 

His begging was reduced to only pathetic whimpering. 

Steve’s head dropped back on the ground. His eyes rolled back in his skull until he could barely see the image of his Billy leaned over him. Arms still wrapped in those vines, but reaching with the ropes little give towards black eyes. 

“Wait!” 

The hand released, just enough, just to let Steve’s straining neck suck down a breath. 

Those cold fingers stayed pressed against his swollen skin. 

Flayed Billy’s head turned slowly from Steve’s face to Billy’s. Real Billy’s. His own matching set of tear tracks cleaning the mud off his face. 

Billy swallowed down thickly. His eyes blinking rapidly as he watched back like a deer in the headlights. He sucked in a harsh breath, then lifted one side of his mouth in a smirk.

“Let me do it?” Billy snickered. 

Steve jolted where he was pinned on the floor. Groaning out sharply as he started trying to fight again. 

His Billy, the real Billy, did his best to ignore him. “Isn’t this what you wanted, ya freaky bastard? Me to join you, do as you say, build this damn army?” He broke off with a laugh that sounded a lot like a sob. 

“Well okay, okay! Let me do this,” Billy nodded down towards Steve with his dark eyebrows, one cut open to reveal blackened blood, lifting in seriousness, “and I’ll be your soldier.” 

Flayed Billy watched him. Black eyes swimming as they considered it. 

Then his twisted fun-house mirror of a face cracked into a smile. “William Hargrove,” he dragged the words out, proudly, made Billy flinch from it, “how delightful. You won’t be a soldier in my army, however.”

Flayed Billy’s hands pulled out from Steve’s shirt. He held Steve’s hips and dragged him across the cold ground towards Billy this time, yanked him painfully across the cement until he was almost touching Billy as he knelt pleading on the ground. 

“You’ll be the general of my army,” he moved to crouch right next to Billy, pressing his shoulder into his. Whispering with a folded snake like tongue right into his ear, “You will lead as we wash away the humans to make this world our new home.” 

His hand lifted to touch at the mess of tentacles and vines trapping Billy’s arms. They melted under his blacked hand’s veins, moved away as if they were listening to him. Controlled by him. 

They fell away from Billy’s leather jacket clad arms and tumbled to the ground. Some landing on Steve’s legs. 

Steve whimpered as they touched his skin, wet and wiggling, slime covered. He tried to flinch away. Didn’t move an inch. 

“Go on and take him in your human way,” flayed Billy said slowly, “I want to watch.”

He moved behind Billy, a horrid grin breaking his face. Showing off his gums that were as black as his eyes. He towered behind the real Billy as he stood and watched. Just as he wanted. 

Steve turned from him to see Billy, his Billy, rubbing across his freed arms. Flexing his hands that were white as paper and covered with a layer of slime. 

He turned up to Steve, his eyes sadder than he had ever seen them. And broke the eye contact with a low growl. 

Billy reached up his hands, yanking Steve’s legs by the length of rope tied around them. Working on the knot that was just as messy and tangled as his facial expression. “Gotta move this shit,” he growled, loosening the middle rope and then unwinding the length from Steve’s legs. 

The rope dropped between them. Still tied around Steve’s waist and arms, but the part that was now loose fell limply across his hip. 

Billy grabbed his ankles, those big hands were familiar and warm with blood pumping freshly through them. Those big hands slid up his ankles, transferring the coat of mud on Billy’s hands into the thick hair over Steve’s calf muscles, and stopped in a firm grip under his knees. 

Steve, he didn’t fight back. He didn’t kick out. He watched with his big, blinking brown eyes as Billy pulled him closer. 

As he lifted his legs to allow himself to sit in the space between them. He moved Steve’s knees to either side of his wide hips. Pressed them to the warm butter of his leather jacket like he could keep them there. 

Behind Billy, the flayed laughed. A horrible curling grin ran along his face and made his black eyes squint. 

Steve whimpered and moaned as he was dragged farther. His hands were fists simply shivering against his chest as he went where Billy pulled. As he watched helplessly upwards as Billy moved above him. As he leaned his body over Steve, propping himself up with one arm, while the other worked to keep Steve’s legs open and around Billy’s hips. 

This close, Steve could smell the cologne Billy always used too much off. It made his stomach knot. 

“I’m sorry,” Billy muttered the words as softly as his plush lips could move them. 

It was the first time Steve ever heard him say it. He had always shown it: in the way he apologized for their fight in November. How he apologized for loving Steve in a small town where they couldn’t dream of coming out. For explaining that he wouldn’t stop wearing the Hargrove mask, not for a second, because of the fear carved into his golden tanned skin. Carved in the shape of his father’s fists. 

He spoke sorry with gentle hands and warm kisses in the coldest of nights. Spoke sorry to Steve in a way he hadn’t anyone else. 

Billy apologized all those times with his actions. 

This was the first time Steve ever heard the words. And he couldn’t even reply. The duct tape cutting into the skin around his mouth. He could only shake his head and wonder how he even had tears left to cry as Billy repeated himself. 

“I’m so sorry, pretty boy.” he whispered and it sounded a lot like a sob. 

“What are you saying?” The flayer perked up behind Billy, craning his neck to see over his mirror image's shoulder. The black veins bulged under his grey skin. 

Steve kept his eyes on Billy. Kept shaking his head. Refusing his apology, because he had nothing to be sorry for. Nothing at all. 

“Does it always take this long?” The flayer asked. His lips churning up into a cruel smile. “Is this for-play? Sweet-talking? Have anything to say, William?” 

Billy’s hand lifted from Steve’s leg to wrap around his waist, cupping his Scoops Ahoy shorts timidly. 

He shook his head, but the flayer wasn’t truly asking. Just playing. 

“Go ahead and tell him... umm, tell him he’s cute.” the flayer ordered. 

Billy winced as he repeated the word back. “So cute, Stevie,” he muttered. 

Behind him the flayer parted his lips in a gasping laugh. Throwing that messy head of blond hair back. If possible, when he looked back into Steve’s watery eyes, they looked even blacker. “Tell him he looks sexy and hot!” the flayer ordered. 

“You’re so sexy, and hot,” Billy repeated back. His voice lacking any fire. Any heat, only a clicking vinyl recording spinning on the end of a needle. 

“Tell him he looks pathetic and helpless.” the flayer ordered. 

Billy shivered across his whole body. He tilted forward to burrow his nose and forehead into Steve’s shoulder. Putting his shivering weight down into Steve’s shivering collar bones. As if he could support his weight. 

Steve closed his eyes tight as he felt the words hotly strike into his skin. 

“You look pathetic... and helpless, Stevie.” Billy repeated. His words wet against skin. 

Billy’s hands both moved to cup his hips. Those big warm hands moving slowly, so gently and so slowly, across his white belt and down the front of his shorts. 

Thick fingers pushed the fabric the few modest inches it had left until they touched the edge of Steve’s white briefs. Pushing into his tender skin, the softest part of the inside of his thigh. Billy’s muddy fingers were getting the caramel colored hairs Steve grew there damp. Dirty. Soiled. 

Flayed watched from over Billy’s shoulders, his blackened eyes scanning across the exposed skin of Steve’s body. How it flushed red with the cold, how it jumped under Billy’s warm touch. 

“Tell him,” the flayed licked a black tongue across his black lips, “tell him you want to fuck him,” he ordered. 

Billy shivered out a gasp into the soft skin of Steve’s neck. “I—,” he started. His hands spreading his fingers to cup as much skin as he could. 

His cock was filling out in his shorts. He didn’t want it to, tried to wish it back down. But he couldn’t help it. The kick in his long shaft. The pre-cum that jumped at the idea of Billy’s touch. 

Steve lifted his tied wrists to press against Billy’s chest. Spread his fingers in the same way. He could feel the air in Billy’s lungs move as he sucked in a deep breath before speaking. 

“I want to fuck you,” Billy repeated. 

And Steve finally closed his eyes in a whimpering sob. Turning his head to burrow his nose into Billy’s hair. He could smell gasoline, and the rotting decay of mildew. Things that didn’t belong. He breathed it in. Trying to remember what Billy’s shampoo smelt like the last time he was lucky enough to burrow his nose in it. 

Spices, he could remember, spices and apples. Like a hot apple cider that warmed up each bit of his intestines as he drank it down. 

That’s what Billy should smell like. His Billy. 

“Tell him,” the flayed leaned even farther. Let himself see how Billy’s fingers disappeared into Steve’s underpants. How their blood red tips left streaks of mud wherever they went. 

Flayed swallowed. Flicked his eyes up from Steve’s spread legs to his face. Waited with bated breath until Steve blinked his wet eyes back open. 

“Tell him you’re going to kill him,” the flayed ordered. 

Steve drew in a sharp breath through his nose it all smelt so bad, smelt like the flayed rancid breath. His black blood inside his black veins seemed to turn his whole body another shade. Something not of this world. 

So he turned to dig his nose into Billy’s hair. And waited. Waited to hear those words and their ending to this game he knew was coming. 

He let out a sharp, shivering moan as Billy’s hand ripped his belt from their loops. Dragging the knitted fabric through them roughly and crudely. Creating a puff of smoke. Making the place smell burnt. 

Billy’s hands dipped down to throw the useless belt between them. His hulking, leather clad torso moving in an arch over Steve’s own. 

In a breath, Billy came back up, his eyes sea foam blue. And it left Steve completely breathless. “I’m going to kill him,” Billy repeated incorrectly. 

Steve blinked at him. He must have misheard. 

Billy kept watching him. One pretty eye closed in a knowing wink. 

Then, like a dog powering against his fighting ring captors, like a muscle car leaving the line drawn on the asphalt at the start of a race, Billy spun around and lunged towards the flayed. 

His body pushed the other to the ground, sending him sprawling back with a panicked moan onto the steel mill’s cement floor. Billy sat on his legs as the flayed wiggled around. Trying to break free, but he was caught by surprise. 

Steve watched as Billy’s arm arched into the rancid air with a streak of black blood following it, splattering after it, after the short blade of the switch blade knife in his hand. 

There was a hideous screeching noise from the other side of the basement. From the darkness that couldn’t be seen into. 

Steve tried to cower away, tried to lift his hands to cover his ears and crawl backwards. 

But he couldn’t stop watching the way Billy sunk the blade into the flayed’s chest over and over, again and again. Into the mirror image of his own chest. Until the flayed was sputtering more blood from his mouth than air. 

Not until Billy finally stopped. The hand violently stabbing now held down at his waist in exhaustion. His chest heaving, his jaw hanging open, as he stands up on shaky legs. Looking down at his own twisted body as it slowly dies. 

Steve whimpers out from under the duct tape on his mouth. To his Billy. 

That curly head of blond hair turned. Still messy, still covered in dirt and sticks, but hiding a shit eating grin that’s unmistakable Billy. 

Steve lifted his arms, and without a second thought Billy rushed forward to cut into the knot of ropes. One hand bracing Steve’s forearm while the other sawed his blade up and through the ropes. Slicing through them with a loud ripping. 

Removing the duct tape was slower. Billy lifted one corner just to get his thumb under it and slowly pulled it from his lips. 

They felt chapped and bloodied, sticky from the residue of the tape. He parted them with a gasping inhale. 

“Hargrove,” he exhaled. Lifting one fist to hit against Billy’s chest. 

This time he felt it vibrate under his hand as a laugh. “Sorry, pretty boy,” he whispered. Billy whispered, his Billy. In a gentle and soft voice Steve was scared he would never hear again. 

Steve opened his mouth to say more, to scold him more, but at the same time another screaming noise sounded from the other end of the basement. 

Whatever had been down here was injured, bleeding out the same black blood as flayed Billy was on the ground. But it wasn’t dead. 

No, it was moving. 

Steve’s playful punch turned into a white knuckle grip as he fisted Billy’s jacket. Holding him as close as he could while they listened to new noises. 

A dragging sound that festered out horrid squelching noises as it drew closer. The shadows could only keep it so long. 

Steve was watching into the darkness with wide eyes, blinking as he expected what horror that may step from the shadows. Another demogorgon, this one with six legs instead of two or even four, he didn’t know. Simply readied himself with a sharp intake of breath. 

Billy hadn’t watched. He hadn’t needed to, been locked in this place with that damn thing. And Steve could see it on his face as soon as Billy grabbed back to lead them running up the steps— that Billy knew what it was. 

And it was something worth running away from. 

They ran through the top of the steel works silent save for their footfalls and panting breaths. The dusty place echoed around them, ghost like and far too quiet for what hides under the floor. 

Billy ripped the double doors open and held them for Steve as he powered past. They both skidded in the gravel as they rounded the driveway to the blue Camaro waiting for them. 

“Was this part of the plan?” Billy asked out of nowhere. His voice tinged with a slight laugh. 

Steve had to do a double take before he replied. “Plan?” He asked, “I have no idea what you are talking about!” 

Billy stood against the drivers door, letting the metal cool his skin. Resting so his arms that were bound now laid over the roof of his car. “You’re telling me there wasn’t no plan to break me out? You gettin caught by that demon and showing up with a knife nestled up with your cock was just another Tuesday?” 

Steve delighted in hearing that gruff voice again. That annoyed drawl of curse words and snarl that hid a smile. 

“Or do you just always keep a knife there, and I’ve just been missing it, pretty boy?” 

Steve smiled back, turning over his shoulder to blow bashfully out the side of his mouth before looking at Billy. “It was my plan. And a shit-brained one, really. Just happy it worked.” 

“God, I really want to kiss you.” Billy groaned, his smile turned heated. 

Steve knocked against the glass, his knuckles signaling to be let in. Billy got the hint and fished for his keys. But of course, it hadn’t been him driving. His keys were left on the corpse of his doppelgänger in the basement. 

“Damnit,” he cursed. Turning his pockets inside out to show he didn’t have them. 

Behind them the monster rattled the foundation of the mill. They could hear from the inside where the metal steps were shaking. Whatever it was, was climbing. 

“What the hell do we do?” Steve tried the handle, it was locked. 

“Fuck,” Billy was trying his handle too, pounding on the door, “Fuck!”

“Don’t you have a spare?” Steve asked, “like under the gas cap—”

“I don’t loose my fuckin keys, Harrington! I ain’t a dumb hick!” Billy shot back. 

Steve hit his fists against the door. His body shivered from the cold, from the sounds gaining towards them. “Shouldn’t we just make a run for it then?” He didn’t want to imagine the way the forest around them would rip his work uniform to shreds. How his white socks wouldn’t keep the thorns off his skin. 

But he spared a glance behind them towards the double doors. They vibrated from the growing movement behind them. 

“Don’t gotta, babe,” Billy said, very cool for their particular situation. Then a sharp knocking and a glass shattering. 

Steve turned back to see Billy knocking away the sides of his beloved car's drivers side window. His jacket balled up around his fist thrown limply into the back seat as he reached in. 

Billy unlocked his door, sinking into the low car, before reaching over to flip the lock for Steve’s door. 

“Perfect,” Steve said in exasperation as he dropped in. “Now we are like idiot sardines in a can. Waiting for the top to be rolled back!”

“Anyone ever tell you that you cry like a damn girl?” Billy grumbled. 

His voice grew muffled as he bent over in his seat to rip out the wires under the ignition of the muscle car. His tongue caught between two plump lips as he fiddled enough to make sparks. 

Any rebuttal was caught in Steve’s throat. He wanted to hate himself again, a little more, as his cock started filling out again. He didn’t know Billy could hot wire a car. And damn, his ass and bare arms looked good while doing it. 

“I thought you liked all the noises I made?” He flirted before he could stop himself. 

The Camaro came to life with a powerful roar. It sounded a lot like fighting back. It sounded like hope. 

Billy sat up in the seat again, his eyes on the dash for a second before he turned to Steve. He gave him another wink from those amazing eyes, his handsome smirk back on his face that looked more real than any monster from any dimension ever could. 

He threw the car into reverse and revved the engine just as the door burst open. 

Just as a hulking figure stepped from the double doors, its flesh black as old blood yet swirling and moving fresh as an open wound. It’s legs were multitudes, even as it stumbled out into the night, as its mouth was huge as it cried. 

Steve saw it only for a moment before Billy whipped the Camaro backwards into the street. 

He had to throw his hands up, brace one on the dash while the other flattened a palm against the roof to hold on. 

The tires spun on the wet pavement as Billy shifted into forward gear, laying his dirty boot as hard as it could go down on the gas. The Camaro caught and lurched forward much faster than the monster could’ve stumbled towards them. 

It bowled into the night as rocks and dust kicked up. 

Steve watched it for a moment from the side mirror. Watched as it slunk into the forest. Disappeared once more into the darkness. 

He swallowed, closing his eyes, and leaned his head back against the plush leather. 

“Shit,” Billy growled from next to him, “Bent bumper. Broken headlight. Gotta completely replace the windshield and this shit,” he motioned with one arm towards his open drivers window. “What a fuckin ASS!” he barked. 

Steve’s heart was jumping with each breath under his sailor shirt, his red ascot stained a muddy morgue color of blood rapidly bouncing up and down. 

He lifted one hand to feel along his swollen wrists. Make sure the skin wasn’t broken. Just bruised and painful. Then he dragged one hand down his face. Felt the lines where the tape was. Wondered if those would leave bruises on his face. He hoped they wouldn’t, but a part of him knew they would. Typically Steve didn’t have luck in coming out unscarred. 

He turned his head, his hair slightly wet with sweat and god knows what pressed against the seat’s neck rest. Looked at Billy talking to himself with a fondness in his eyes and a smile on his face. 

Any bruises, he knows Billy will be there to press ice to. Another concussion, and Billy will curl against him just to listen to his breaths. Shake him awake, kiss him awake, to make sure he’s okay. 

Cups of coffee fresh in the morning, and bandages fresh along his raw wrists in the afternoon. 

Billy will apologize for all this, without words. With his actions. 

Billy caught him looking, flicked his eyes from the road to Steve’s a couple of times before his nervous ranting cracked into a wary grin. 

“What’s that face for?” he chucked low. 

Steve shrugged. Unashamed about being caught daydreaming time spent together. He blinked back lazy and tired. “Just glad to be riding up here with you. And not locked in the trunk. Much more comfortable, better view.”

Billy scoffed. His cheeks streaked with mud turning red enough to be seen. “Yeah, yeah,” he brushed off. 

But one hand moved off the wheel to curl around Steve’s thigh. His fingers tightened over the blue polyester fabric. Squeezing before settling there comfortably. In a claim, in a possessive touch that Steve’s whole body went warm over. 

Steve laid his hand over Billy’s. Felt the fragile bones on the back of his dirty and scarred hand. Let his fingers absentmindedly pet across them. 

“Drive to the police station,” Steve spoke up as they came back past the Welcome to Hawkins sign. 

“The cops?” Billy scoffed. “What the hell is an Indiana pig gonna do against that thing?” 

Steve’s serine face cracked into a knowing smirk. “Oh, you’ll be surprised.”


End file.
